


Deja-vu

by Immawritesomeshit



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU ish, Angst and Feels, F/M, I hc Hange as female in this one, Manga Spoilers, background levihan, eremika and eremin if you squint, jeankasa - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immawritesomeshit/pseuds/Immawritesomeshit
Summary: Someone has been scribbling poems on Mikasa's desk, and it's frustrating, but the clumsy lines make her smile and the haughty retorts reel her in. And this would, probably, be the beginning of a bittersweet love story. But–Mikasa lives with the ghost of someone she can neither remember nor forget, Armin sees terrifying 'dreams', Jean realises that he is best friends with someone he can't recognise, and Levi is caught between what he sees and what he feels is right."All he did was embarrass himself, but she felt half parts strangely at ease and hurt, wanted to go towards him and run away from him. A sense of safety that she shouldn’t feel with a stranger, and the pain of a companionship turned sour. "Updated once every week!
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	1. Marionettes Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Here's hoping I don't leave glaring plot holes and become embarrassed enough to dig a hole and jump in it.

It was her first act of vandalism. But to be fair, the pretentious ass who scrawled on her desk was _asking_ for it.

Well, technically it wasn’t _her_ desk. They had to shift across classrooms for different lectures, but _this_ was the room she was in the most, and _that_ was the desk she was so attached to that people tended to stay away from it.

Everyone knew that it basically belonged to her. Until this one asshole decided to stake a claim on it.

‘ _The wind carries your laugh to my ears_

_Music to my senses, my love_

_Can’t you see how we are adored_

_By all the gods above?’_

– Scrawled across her once clean, _clean_ desk, clumsily, as if whoever was writing it had scratched it as quickly as possible to avoid being seen. As if their thoughts had been so moving, so _worthy_ that they did not have enough time or sense to fish for an obliging piece of paper and had to deface her desk to preserve it for posterity. 

She scoffed. _Why go through all the trouble if you were going to half-ass it?_

The impulse to respond had grown in her throughout the class hour, as she pretended to listen to Shadis go on about kings and wars. The idea that whoever ruined her desk probably thought they were etching a masterpiece irked her.

Because it was sappy, it was frankly _juvenile_ , and it stood scrawled across her desk like it was blessing her with its presence.

So she readied her pen.

 _‘Rhyming does not a good poem make.’_ She wrote, then leaned back to admire her craftsmanship. She took a strange sense of pride at how much _neater_ her writing was, and secretly hoped that the mysterious ‘poet’ would be too embarrassed to attempt something so foolhardy again.

The smile remained on her lips till she shared her small revenge with Armin during lunch.

“So you got back at someone for vandalising your desk-“ He asked, “-by _vandalising your desk_?”

She frowned.

“Besides, you can’t be sure they’ll see it.” He continued, undeterred by the annoyance on her face. “When we switch classes, most people don’t keep sitting at the same place every time.”

“I do.” She said, a little offended.

“And that’s _adorable,_ your bond with that desk.” Armin indulged her. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up, you know?”

But after they changed classrooms again, Mikasa returned to find a new note scribbled under hers in the same obnoxious handwriting.

‘ _Neither does it lay waste to my lines in its wake.’_

She had to bite her lip to not laugh at that one. This ‘poet’ knew to rhyme, if nothing else.

Armin leaned over to read. Armin _always_ did that – He thought it his business to learn every bit of information, no matter how personal.

“Well, so they sat here again.” He murmured. “What were the odds?”

“Yeah.” She opened her pen, ready to get to work. Armin watched her scratch yet another reply, her original mission all but forgotten.

‘ _You really shouldn’t be writing on someone else’s desk’, s_ he wrote, deciding to drop all attempts to rhyme.

Armin's gaze had grown soft. “You and _that guy_ used to do this all the time.” He said, “Though that was by passing paper. Infinitely more dangerous.”

Ah. She’d forgotten that too.

Armin read her expression. “It’s okay. It’s not important.”

But it _should_ be. A memory that had put such a sweet smile on her friend’s face – It must have been so _precious_.

They had always been together, just the two of them. But it always felt like just _one_ person was missing, like there was an empty space between them just waiting to be filled. When Armin began to speak excitedly about his interests, she would look around for the third person to handle him. When she said something Armin couldn't stomach, he looked at this empty space for support, and was surprised upon finding no one there. 

Armin had offered an easy explanation, one that should _not_ have been as easy to accept as it was.

“There were three of us.” He had said once, halfway into building a sandcastle with her, eyes unfocused, as if he were looking somewhere beyond just them. “There were supposed to be three of us.”

He'd seen it in his dreams. 

Armin did not know much – where they had met, for one. Or what had happened to them to make the three of them so important to each other, shattered them to uneven pieces that could only make one single whole. She only knew mere snippets, vague images of childhood memories that he would eagerly share with her. Memories she should have dismissed, but for some reason, she believed in it all.

There was a third who was no longer with them.

And because of that, they would forever remain incomplete.

* * *

Jean laughed out loud, and was promptly knocked on the head by Shadis’s well aimed chalk throw.

“Something funny about world history, Kristien?”

“N-No sir!” He sank into his seat, desperately trying to keep the mirth from escaping again.

_‘You really shouldn’t be writing on someone else’s desk.’_

This person had had no sense of irony.

_‘And what you’re doing is fine?’_

He wrote his reply as fast as he could, hiding behind his textbooks and trying to look as innocent as possible. Shadis seemed to have some sort of a special detector in his head that alerted him to Jean’s every mess up.

“You're writing to someone?” Marco mouthed, eagerly trying to peek at what he was doing.

“I’ll show you after class.” He replied. “Now shut up! You’re gonna get me caugh-“

“Anything you would like to share with the class, Kristien?” Shadis didn’t look very pleased. But then again, he never did. “Maybe you’ll like to take the rest of the class? Huh?”

Marco sat straight on his desk, every bit the model student, and once again Jean cursed his rotten luck. Being stuck with a childhood friend who was every bit the troublemaker he was; just better at hiding it – the worst kind of combination.

_Who broke the vase? Well, it absolutely can’t be little Marco._

Except it was. It almost always was. To his credit, Marco would always confess of course, that righteous moron. But no one believed him.

Because Marco was nothing but earnest, whereas Jean was cocky and unlikable and self-centered.

Were the accusations true? Perhaps. And if he didn’t love Marco so damn much, he would’ve strangled him years ago.

“Nothing, sir!” He croaked out. “It won’t happen again!”

Shadis had obviously decided that it was too much trouble to half-kill him just for moving his mouth and had long moved on to more demanding targets. Like Sasha, who had taken advantage of his momentary distraction to (attempt to) stuff a whole piece of bread in her mouth. Connie had failed to hold in his laughter, and now _both_ of them were getting chewed out. 

That, though, allowed him enough leeway to write another slight under his first.

 _‘Hipocrite.’_

When he returned the next day to find it crossed out and replaced with ‘ _Hypocrite_ ’, he let out a laugh loud enough to provide a _real_ reason to send him out.

Marco had been waiting for him by his seat when Shadis finally dismissed the class and let him in ( _I’ll be watching you, Kristein_ ).

“Your pen-pal is mean.” He remarked. “I don’t understand what joy you get from this.”

“I’m _schooling_ them.” Jean replied, prepping his pen for writing yet another snarky comeback. “They essentially called my poetry crap. Pretentious fuck.”

Marco looked exasperated. “Pot, kettle.” He said, “Besides, neither of you should be defacing school property like this.”

“Shut up.” He muttered, gently shoving him away. “Now, how do I reply to this?”

“Maybe you should go talk to them in person and solve _all_ of this.” Marco suggested. Jean pretended not to hear.

‘ _Good spelling does not a smart person make._ ’ 

He could _feel_ Marco’s disappointment before he spoke. “That’s not even mildly funny.”

“Nothing can be as funny as your face.” Jean said, focusing extra on drawing a smiley at the end, genuinely curious to see how his nemesis would react to his artistic talents.

Because in his extremely ordinary life, this was the most he had ever been entertained.

* * *

Armin kept a notebook he never let anyone see. Not even Mikasa.

 _Three of us_ , he had written. _From childhood to adulthood. Mikasa had longer hair. Always wore a red scarf._

And then, fragments that he himself could not make sense of.

_Stones falling from the sky. Screaming._

_Guns. Shooting._

_The ocean. A conch in my hands, Mikasa by my side._

_A crystal with someone inside. Someone who won’t come out._

And finally

_Mikasa crying. No scarf. Smoke and dust all around us._

He had initially thought they were memories from their childhood. Children tended to forget most of their formative years, and there might very well have been another childhood friend – someone who moved away, perhaps – that both of them had forgotten.

But that did not explain how he _knew_ what Mikasa would look like when she gets older. Did not explain the strangely fantastical setting he could only catch glimpses of. The fact that in some of said glimpses, Mikasa was wearing some sort of a uniform.

The memories came with a stench of death.

 _Memories of a previous life_ , he thought. A past life with _three_ of them.

Secretly, he had made it his mission to find the third. The ache of emptiness broke him sometimes, something in him screaming to _find him, find our friend, fill the gaps_.

_Quick. Quick._

Mikasa felt it too, he thought. There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes whenever he spoke of those memories; shards of an uncertain past. But she could never remember more.

However, she never questioned it. She accepted his strange theory as if it was fact, eagerly drinking in every piece of information he gave her.

Which is why he didn’t tell her how one of those memory fragments was her in tears. That maybe she could not remember because _she didn’t want to_.

Instead, he suffered alone.

It was his choice. Yet he couldn’t stop from being envious when he noticed that Mikasa didn’t have the same tired bags under her eyes. That she didn’t hesitate before telling him anything. That she could be carefree and have a running joke with someone she didn’t even know, when he agonized over the smallest decisions.

‘ _Imitation is the strongest form of flattery.’_ She had written, no hesitation, despite having spent _months_ acting possessive over every scratch on that damned desk.

“What are you doing, Mikasa?” He asked tiredly. 

“He copied an earlier comment of mine.” She explained, not taking her eyes off an image the other person had drawn at the end of his message. “Maybe I should copy his drawing too.”

That damned smiley on the desk seemed to almost be _mocking_ him.

He resisted the urge to take the pen from her hands and throw it away. Not for the first time, he wished she could see the same world he did.

_So much blood, so much death._

_A vow of revenge._

Instead, he opened his book and pretended to read.


	2. Falling Into Place

“Aren’t you even a little curious about who you’ve been _conversing_ with?” Marco asked, not for the first time. He was convinced that Jean should go talk to this mystery person and strike up a friendship.

“We ain’t gonna be friends, Marco.” Jean huffed. “We’re _arguing._ ”

“You should see your smile when you’re _arguing_.” Marco rolled his eyes, “You’re enjoying it. I’m just saying, you might enjoy actually _talking_ to this person more than scratching words on school property.”

Jean would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of it. This person had a subtle sense of humour, and even their jabs hadn’t been _that_ mean (honestly, Marco’s tired smile after reading his poetry for the first time had been _more_ painful). Besides, they’d progressed to casual conversation now.

‘ _Shadis almost caught me this time’._

_‘Maybe you should stop writing here, then’._

_‘Wouldn’t you be lonely tho? :c’_

_‘I would have a cleaner desk.’_

_‘You didn’t say no. And its not your desk’_

_‘*it’s. And I use it the most. It’s mine.’_

_‘You’ll miss me.’_

_‘I hope Shadis catches you.’_

He was actually looking forward to class now. Every day he would rush to get the same spot, eager to see what his ‘nemesis’ had said next. It was more fun when this was all the contact they had. The fewer the words, the more precious they were, and he worried that if they met each other, this _connection_ would soon dwindle down to uncomfortable greetings in the hallways. That would take so much joy out of classes.

But of course, it wouldn’t bother him _that_ much. He had always given his everything to studying – he wanted to pass with flying colours, get a comfortable job and...

_That wasn’t right._

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

 _No, that_ was _right. That was the goal. Live an easy life._

“I’m not seeing them.” He said, speeding up his walk to show Marco he didn’t wish to discuss it any longer. “Whoever it is will be just that. Words on wood.”

* * *

Armin had been sketching in class.

It was unlike him, but that morning he had seen Mikasa break into a breath-taking smile just upon noticing a piece of paper stuffed into a crack in the desk. It was a poem, and though she had eagerly turned to share it with him, he pretended to be occupied with his notebook.

So here he was, still stubbornly drawing as Levi took class. Which was a _dangerous_ thing to do, because there was nothing Levi hated more than people questioning authority. He could still see Mikasa eyeing him from the corner of his eyes, so he kept his hand moving.

Mikasa had read the poem. She had read it, and mirth had danced in her eyes, and it simultaneously made him want to smile and beg her to share his grief. He’d fancied himself a hero, keeping her safe, but what kind of hero would be _this_ resentful of every drop of joy the one he protected enjoyed?

 _She has suffered enough_ , the voice in his head had murmured. _Let her rest._

He had drawn the sea.

With every stray stroke of his pen, the image had come together.

Water. It was just water. But it made him _yearn_ for a yesterday he could not even remember.

 _We’d gone to the see, the three of us_. _We’d returned, but one still remained there in soul_.

_That was where we’d lost him._

Levi snatched his notebook away with practiced ease. “Being smart doesn’t mean you can slack off, Arlert.”

He was still stuck in a dream. “Sorry.” He said, but he heard it as an outsider would, from far away. He felt as if everything was happening in slow motion – Levi looking at his drawing, his eyes widening ever so slightly, almost in recognition, before returning the book to him.

“Come to me after class.” He said. “We’ll have to discuss your attitude, Armin.”

_Had he always sounded so commanding?_

“Yes.” He replied, trying and failing to notice the murderous glare Mikasa was giving their professor. Levi, on his part, seemed strangely unbothered.

Armin only half listened to the rest of the class. He knew that Mikasa was trying to desperately catch his eyes, but he stubbornly looked away, unwilling to show her his weakness.

Never again.

And when the bell rang, he followed Levi out without so much as sparing her a look. He could almost imagine the hurt showing on her face – the memories had shown him enough of that.

Later, he would apologise.

Later.

Levi stopped only once – when professor Hange interrupted his walk, and proceeded to talk about some new _fascinating_ creature that was discovered recently. He merely ignored his colleague like she was a pesky fly and shut his door on her face. 

“Sit, Armin.”

“Yes.” The sir was on the tip of his tongue. Levi looked almost relaxed now, in this room with only him for company. Armin tried not to think too deeply about why the standoffish professor had started calling him by his first name all of a sudden, but the air buzzed with excitement. 

Levi looked at him, searching for something. “You drew the sea.” He said finally. “Why.”

Armin did not have an answer. “It just appeared in my mind.” He said.

“Have you ever been?”

He looked away. “No.”

_Not in this life._

Levi’s eyes narrowed. “Never?”

And Armin was hit by the realisation that _he knew_.

* * *

_Sometimes I wonder if a Shadis I would be_

_When I grow to fit bigger shoes_

_Sickened by the world around me_

_Sickened by myself_

_As I continue to retch_

_My deficient knowledge_

_At insipid fellows_

_Only lazing behind desks because_

_their parents demanded so_

The poem was simple, clearly not written by a practiced hand, and if Shadis had found it first it would have been the end of them.

But she knew that feeling. Shadis was _loud_ to compensate for the vibrancy he lacked. His eyes were _dull,_ and Mikasa _knew_ that look. It was the look of someone who had lost everything and chose to go along with the tide. Someone who had stopped fighting against what fate had planned out for him.

 _She had seen those same eyes before_.

Instead of sharing this, however, she simply wrote ‘ _Congrats on graduating from rhyming every last word’_.

Armin still wasn’t back. It had been hours, and she wanted so dearly to go home, but she’d never walked home without him before. And she wasn’t leaving him unprotected for long.

Never again.

The headaches were back.

_Flashes of colour, the smell of burning flesh, kind arms around her – both soothing and restricting. Hot tears rolling down her cheeks._

She opened the poem again, the paper already heavily creased from the many times she had read and re-read it while waiting. Maybe she’d write one of her own. That would surprise the ‘poet’. That would take her mind far, far away from the headaches and the hurt and the incessant worry about Armin’s safety.

The creak of the door opening interrupted her thoughts, and a tall man was standing there, staring at her with an utterly flabbergasted look on his face.

She blinked, a little taken aback. She hadn’t expected company, not _this_ late.

His gaze fluttered down to the paper she clutched in her hands, and she made a show of folding it back into a small square before slipping it into her book. “Can I help you?”

The man seemed to break free from a trance.

“Ah yes, I came over to check if I left a ….. _bag_ behind-“

She gave him a once-over. “You’re wearing one.”

“I have TWO!” he explained in a hurry, walking swiftly to a seat in front. He looked around for mere seconds before immediately rushing back out the door as if he was on fire.

But the damage was done, and she no longer felt at home. The man had brought with him _more_ pain, and the moment he opened his mouth she had instinctively braced herself for something, because her mind thought it knew his words would hurt her. All he did was embarrass himself, but she felt half parts strangely at ease _and_ in pain, wanted to go towards him and run away from him.

A sense of safety that she shouldn’t feel with a stranger, and the pain of a companionship turned sour.

The classroom was still saturated with his presence long after he left.

She decided to wait for Armin outside.

* * *

Just thinking of her brought a familiar ache back to life in him, it _suffocated_ him, and yet it was his first time seeing her.

She sat on _their_ desk, holding _his_ poem, and Jean just _knew_ it was her. It was her who had written those notes, teasing him, making him laugh.

 _Maybe I should have talked to her_ , he thought, pausing a little way away from the classroom to catch his breath. _Maybe I should have introduced myself. Maybe I should have told her that it was me._

But he wasn’t sure his tongue would cooperate.

Besides, the feelings she brought with her presence were heavy, too heavy for someone he’d literally just met. And he was instantly on his guard, scared, and apprehensive. As if this was a pain he’d known all too well, and was preparing for yet again.

Hence, he had run away.

Marco was waiting for him at the gates, ever the faithful friend.

“Well? Did you get a reply to your poem?”

“I-“ He did not know how to explain it. “Well, I saw the person. I saw who it was.”

For someone who had been egging him to do the same for a long time, Marco did not seem very interested. “Oh?”

“A woman. Beautiful-“ _Pained_ “Black hair. Quiet.” _brave_ “She was sitting there- Had my poem in her-“ _calloused, strong_ “-hands..”

“I see. Did you talk to her?”

Jean flinched. “Ah, I guess? But somehow it hurt to look at her.” His voice grew softer, almost wistful. “It felt like I’d known her at some point.”

_Beautiful black hair. Reckless. Strong. But so, so fragile._

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Marco’s words stunned him to a stop. “What?”

His friend looked at him with the same open smile. “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything, Jean. You’re just too much of a romantic through and through.” He turned away, starting to walk once again. “You should concentrate on the lessons, yeah?”

Marco had a point. Marco _always_ had a point. But something about this felt _wrong_.

This sense of unease only grew as he reached his house and went through his sketch book, only to see the same girl staring at him from its pages, crudely drawn with anything he could get his hands on.

 _Fate_. His mind supplied. _This is fate_.

And if the world wanted them to meet, who was he to let a little heartache stand in its way?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is done! I hope this was okay!  
> I'll be updating the next chapter next week! Thanks for reading! :D

**Author's Note:**

> And there it is, chapter 1! I hope it is interesting enough, and I really hope you guys like it!


End file.
